


(anywhere) i would have followed you

by goforth



Category: Saturday Night Live RPF
Genre: 7000 words of self-indulgence, Angst with a Happy Middle, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Various Cast Appearances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goforth/pseuds/goforth
Summary: “To quote the prolific Don Draper,” (there’s a pause where she joins in his laughter) “In Greek, ‘nostalgia’ literally means ‘the pain from an old wound.’ It’s a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone.”Seth is quiet for a frighteningly long time. So long, in fact, that Amy takes the time to consider making another joke just to settle the tension. And when he finally speaks again, she almost wishes he hadn’t. “I could never feel pain when it comes to you, Amy Poehler. It’s only ever love.”Or, the trials and tribulations of a love that never quite was.
Relationships: Seth Meyers/Amy Poehler
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	(anywhere) i would have followed you

**Author's Note:**

> So... Do I think anyone will read this? No. Did I write this purely for my own enjoyment? Yes. If you do stumble across this fic and happen to enjoy it, let's be friends.
> 
> All credit goes to Lorne Michaels, NBC, Hulu (for reintroducing me to my love of SNL seasons 26-30 during quarantine), and that one time Amy Poehler grabbed Seth Meyer's tie on television. Title comes from "Say Something" by A Great Big World.

“We have faked chemistry so well over the years.”  
_ — Seth Meyers to Amy Poehler _

“Something clicked inside of me, like a broken locket completed.”  
_ — Amy Poehler on meeting Seth Meyers _

—————— 

**A bar in the West Village, “Dublin 6,” sometime in late May 2006**

“Ready to go, Poehler?”

Amy hums a noncommittal agreement, bones heavy with one-too-many gin and tonics. It’s way too late on a Thursday for her to be this drunk, but that’s what Saturday Night Live is: a constant whirlwind of bad choices and not enough sleep. A bunch of thirty-somethings living like they’re still in college, fueled by drugs and alcohol and periods of sleep that can only truly be described as naps. The words send her into motion, into the knowledge that it probably is time to leave. Her hand reaches out for her purse in an almost blindly flailing fashion and it ends up being in Seth’s hands.

“That’s my purse.”

She’s met with a chuckle and a gentle tug on her shoulders. “Sure is, buddy. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Home. An empty apartment in Brooklyn, sans Will. He’s shooting some movie in Illinois — a set she’s expected to visit soon — and there’s a twisted sense of relief at the idea of it. She loves Will, of course, her fucking husband of three years now, but drunkenly stumbling into the hallway is a lot easier when you’re alone. And not even Forte and Armisen and Samberg heckling the pair as they leave the bar can infiltrate the happy thought the next hour brings. Her body leans against Seth as she picks herself up from the table and ushers herself through the door.

The cool night brushes happily against her skin as Amy skips down the street, Seth’s arm around her serving as an anchor. She spends thirty seconds trying to figure out when they agreed he would walk her home and then all of ten seconds to realize she doesn’t care. Especially not when he lets her ramble nonsensically about politics and the merits of having pancakes for dinner, guiding them through the streets and subway.

He laughs at all the right places. He places a ghost of a kiss against the top of her head the moment they sit down. He looks at her like he’s watching an episode of  _ The Wire; _ completely enthralled by a plot point he can’t figure out, but can’t wait to watch unfold. She all but glows under the weight of his gaze. “You have to stop doing that,” she says, a temporary break in one of her infamous rants.

“Doing what?” He asks.

“Looking at me like you can’t get enough of me,” her inebriated brain answers.

Silence follows. Their solace comes in the form of a neutral voice announcing their stop is approaching and the words are forgotten. She’s right back to lamenting about her neighbors with a baby and how they  _ almost _ make her miss the actual crack heads that lived below her in Chicago. Seth’s quieter now, naturally, but still chimes in when necessary. Like when she mentions Chicago and he reminisces on the first time they met, and how it’s ingrained in his memory forever but Amy can’t remember it.

(“I sat there, and I told you about my day and completely fell for you,” he’ll tell her years later, when time has passed and relationships are broken and he’s got his own desk, on his own show. Seth and Amy, talking about how they met, and how he was tethered to her from the start. She really,  _ really _ wishes she could remember it.)

It invokes an odd feeling, thinking of a time when Seth Meyers wasn’t in her life.

They reach her apartment far too quickly, in her humble opinion. It’s bordering on three am and they both have an early call time, but Amy isn’t ready to let him go yet. It’s part alcohol and part longing for something she privately yearns for but never dares to speak out loud. Something they’ve both been dancing around for years, hidden in the corners of offices and the middle of nightclub dance floors and sometimes in front of a camera. Perhaps now, in her third floor walk up, empty and cold, is the time to stop dancing.

So she asks, “Do you want to come up?”

—————— 

**30 Rockefeller Plaza, 30th Floor Office, on a random Tuesday in 2005**

They keep playing fucking couples.

It’s almost like Tina goes up to Lorne and says, “I don’t know what to do for this sketch,” and Lorne replies, “Just make Amy and Seth pretend to have sex.” Every. Single. Week. And that’s considering the fact that they all come into their Wednesday pitch meetings with  _ forty-two goddamn sketches _ planned out, of which only maybe  _ fifteen  _ make it on the show.

The first time Seth and Amy came up with  _ The Needlers _ (originally the Harrisons), they’d just been shooting the shit. They’d played a couple who liked hosting sex parties the season before and riffed on the idea that they had, actually, been a couple who hated each other. The fact that they’d played a couple torn apart by his overbearing mother that one time — and they had fucking  _ cuddled, _ and he’d taken her hand and  _ kissed it, _ and boy did it take her a good cold shower and five hours of sleep to calm down — had only further fueled the idea. And maybe they’d even laughed over one of their first sketches ever together, when they’d played two young kids who’d taken a pregnancy test, and what it would have been like if Am—  _ Kelly _ had actually gotten pregnant. Tina had teased them relentlessly when they presented the idea, spewing bullshit about them needing to find another way to resolve their sexual tension. But the sketch had made it on that weekend… and then another… and now, apparently, another.

Amy is so screwed.

It’s not that it’s hard or anything. Amy Poehler is a professional. She can speak in a funny accent and wear a dumb wig and talk nonsense like its nobody’s business. And she can definitely pretend to bone her co-star and friend in front of all of America. It’s just getting  _ old, _ is all. Like, what, just because they’re both young and attractive and get along really well and have amazing chemistry and might, sometimes, occasionally, find the other attractive, they have to keep playing couples? Ridiculous.

She reminds herself of that now as she stands across from him. They’re in the mock kitchen of a mock restaurant and they’re supposed to be hooking up. It’s only a sketch with her closest friend; she doesn’t need to be breathing this hard. Though then again, Seth looks a little breathless too, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. She feels her body twitch with the threat of a cackle and tries not to let herself break. It’s just all so fucking  _ ridiculous. _ They’re friends, comedic soulmates, and they should be able to do this. Instead her brain (and nether parts, if she’s being honest) can only focus on that dumb button-down he always insists on wearing, the one she’s constantly itching to break open.

“Stop,” she mouths silently, and she isn’t sure who she’s talking to.

When the dress rehearsal is over, Forte and Hader convince her to go out to a nightclub. It’s the most terrible of all terrible ideas and Amy says yes. The plan is to meet at Seth’s apartment, which is apparently the closest, and she smiles through the feeling of a pit forming in her stomach. She could feign a headache or blame it on being too tired, but bonds are never formed by staying home.  _ One drink, _ she tells herself.  _ Then I can go home. _

Somehow Amy manages to drive to her apartment, shower, put on a trace of makeup, and make it to Seth’s before anyone else shows up. He smells like cologne and cigarette smoke when he greets her at the door, pulling her in an embrace that says, “I haven’t seen you in five years and I’ve missed you greatly.” The corner of her heart cracks when they break away.

“So, who does a girl have to blow around here to get a shot?”

The tips of Seth’s ears grow pink as he ushers her into his tiny kitchen. “Well, you don’t have to blow me for it, but I only have whiskey and Miller’s.”

Her nose wrinkles in disgust as she sighs against the cabinet. “Just give me the gross beer. I’ll text one of the guys to pick something up on the way.”

He doesn’t answer right away as he downs the dark liquid he’d poured himself. Amy is powerless as she watches his Adam's apple bob up and then back down. She only narrowly manages to look away in time when he hands her the beer, the coolness seeping against her hot skin. “Where are those guys, anyway?” He asks her, fingers brushing against hers for a moment.

(His hands. She hates his goddamn stupid hands.)

“No idea,” she answers after a long sip. The beer tickles her tongue. It tastes like cheap nights and bad decisions. “Knowing them, they’ve probably ditched us for a strip club with fifty-cent chicken wings and a tramp stamp in the form of a butterfly.”

Seth barks out a laugh and it makes her feel stupidly giddy. Out of all the jokes she ever tells, the best ones end in his laughter. “Damn. Guess it’s just you and me then, Poehlcats.” He bumps his hip against hers gently before grabbing a beer himself. He looks good tonight, less boyish. A dangerous urge to run her fingers through his hair itches at her hands. “Should we just stay in and shit on them behind their backs?”

Her body almost visibly sags with relief at the thought of it. It sounds like the perfect night; sitting on the couch next to the one person who understands her more than anyone. She wants to say yes. She wants to laugh with him until it’s too late to reasonably stay. She wants to bask in the warmth of his undivided, unwavering gaze. Oh, how she  _ wants. _

But doing what she wants and doing what she should have always been two separate things. And after a day like today — after the sketches they’ve done, the looks they’ve shared — Amy doesn’t think she can trust herself not to do what she shouldn’t. “I was only planning on staying for one drink, anyway. I’m pretty pooped after rehearsal.”

To his credit, he only looks disappointed for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. Totally. I mean, the Needlers always take it out of me.”

He doesn’t clarify what “it” means and Amy doesn’t ask him to. She doesn’t think she needs to. Her mind flashes to his body crouched against hers in a dark hallway, ruffling her hair to make the audience think  _ sex _ . “But I’ll stay until I finish this beer, yeah?”

If it takes her an hour to do so, that’s nobody’s business but her own.

—————— 

**On the set of** **_Late Night with Seth Meyers,_ ** **February 24, 2014**

It was a no-brainer, really, agreeing to be his first guest.

He didn’t need to ask but he did anyway. Asked her directly, too, rather than going through his publicist. He just called her up one day, lamenting about how he knew she had a busy schedule, about how she  _ obviously  _ didn’t need to say yes, about how—

Well, she’s not quite sure what the other reasons he had in his head for why she should say no, because she had cut him off with a yes.

They’d spent hours on the phone after, half talking about the show and half catching up. He’d talked about Frisbee and Alexi and the Red Sox and she’d talked about Archie and Abel and  _ Parks.  _ She’d told him how proud she was of him, of his show, and he’d pretended like it was nothing special.

That’s how she finds herself sitting across from him seven months later, on his right, where she had lived so many years ago. Her hair looks great and her dress slims her in all the right places and she kisses his face when she walks out. She can’t remember the last time she’s felt so good.

“Hi!”

“Hi!”

“You’re hosting your own show!”

“I know, I can’t believe it!”

And so the interview goes. It’s far easier than any talk show interview she’s ever done. So many others are formulated, even the hosts she deeply admires, and they all tend to follow the same format. Say hello, tell a topical story, promote what you need to promote, onto the next one. But with Seth… Well, with Seth, it feels like they’re just laughing over a lunch in Manhattan. The cameras and the audience fade away and it’s just the two of them, exposing their friendship to the world. 

At some point — Amy isn’t exactly sure when — they’d found a system for talking about the other during interviews. Including, apparently, interviews done together. They had to, really, because even after their time at  _ Saturday Night Live,  _ it seemed that people liked referencing them as a duo. Maybe it was spoken or maybe it was unspoken, but Seth decided to continue to wear his enormously large heart on his sleeve and speak about her earnestly. Amy elected to keep her feelings close to her chest, only feigning mild indifference towards her former cohost when prompted. 

She’d always been more affectionate through touching, anyway.

So she pretends she doesn’t care when he tells her he’d fallen for her when they first met. She pretends her body doesn’t turn into a live wire when he leans his frame body towards her across the desk. She pretends she isn't completely and totally devoted to him and his success. And she’s completely grateful when the cameras cut away from them to focus on the band, because it allows Seth to curl his arms around her and sway to the music.

“Anywhere I would have followed you,” the frontman croons.

_ You have no fucking idea, _ Amy thinks.

—————— 

**A set of texts sent to Seth Meyers on October 25th, 2008**

_ Poehlcats _ [3:18AM]: Water broke, Coco!   
_ Poehlcats _ [3:18AM]: You’re gonna do great!

—————— 

**On the set of** **_Saturday Night Live,_ ** **November 22, 2008**

He remembers the first time he does it, but he can’t remember why he  _ keeps _ doing it.

It’s become an instinct at a certain point, like saying “and here are tonight’s top stories” and “for Weekend Update, I’m Seth Meyers.” He wonders, as the camera pans from him to Ludacris and Kenan in a makeshift recording studio, if his body just hasn’t caught up with the fact that Amy’s hand isn’t next to his anymore.

It certainly feels like it sometimes. Like when he finds an inexplicable craving for Chinese takeout at two in the morning, because that’s when Amy most enjoyed her brain food. Or when he thinks of a particularly good joke on his smoke break and runs straight to her office, only to find someone new sitting at her desk. Or when the host that week keeps shooting down pitches, one after the other, and he turns to his right to roll his eyes at a friend who’s no longer there.

In the months that she’s on maternity leave, far too involved with baby Archie to be on the show, Amy texts Seth every Sunday morning. She claims she likes waiting until the next day to watch with fresh eyes and he tells her she doesn’t have to lie to him. One time she tells him to pick a better sign off, because “c’mon, Meyers, you look like a fifteen year old boy trying not to think about porn in church.” And she’s right, of course, as she always is, but it’s way easier when you have someone to awkwardly high-five and giggle with over how the segment went. He thinks about her the following Saturday night, seconds before his last joke, and tries to channel her unwavering confidence. It results in a tap on the  _ Update _ desk and a text the following morning, congratulating him on  _ fucking nailing it. _

And so he continues, week after week, to tap the empty space to his right, on the spot where her hand should be.

——————

**30 Rockefeller Plaza, 17th Floor Office, sometime during the holidays in 2007**

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, Seth has to actively remind himself that he’s a writer. A head writer, more specifically. And sometimes he has to remind himself that working in any excuse to touch Amy Poehler does not a good head writer make.

She’s sprawled across his couch (and honestly, at this point, it’s her couch), a pencil in one hand and an energy drink in the other. It’s pushing one am and they’re no closer to getting these jokes down. There’s a headache blooming at his templates, drumming against his brain, as he reads the sentence before him for the fifth time. He’s suddenly thinking out loud, speaking into the stale space between him. “Al Gore on Wednesday testified before a house committee that climate change poses a crisis that threatens civilization. Then he… burned his fucking television to the ground because Seth Meyers couldn’t think of a good punchline.”

Amy’s chuckle comes out as more of a yawn. “I’d be amazed if that dinosaur stayed up late enough to watch the show, never mind burn his television.” There’s a moment of shifting as she sits up, her knees gently bumping against his. It sends an unwanted shiver through him. “Dude, take a break. You’ve been working on this one joke for an hour now.”

“Shit, really?” The watch on his wrist, worn from Seth’s obsessive fidgeting, confirms this. He reaches up to rub at his eyes until he sees spots and takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Maybe a break will do me some good.”  _ And maybe stop trying to write in a high five with Amy when it doesn’t make any fucking  _ sense, his brain chastises him.

When he opens his eyes again, hers are shining with mischief. “Wanna prank Forte?”

Seth studies her. Golden hair against grey wallpaper, soft curves covered by an old sweatshirt. Bags under her eyes above her blinding smile. It’s not fair how good she looks after this long of a day. It’s not fair that she can write a better joke than anyone else in the room past midnight. It’s not fair that her wedding ring glints in the fluorescent lights of the office as she grabs his hand earnestly.

And it’s not fucking fair that, even after all this time, Seth would follow her anywhere, no questions asked.

“Lead the way.”

—————— 

**The** ** _Saturday Night Live_** **after** **afterparty,** **September 25, 2010**

She returns to the show (to  _ him) _ in September.

It’s fucking invigorating, hosting the show. Coming home. She had grown up here, with her loves and heartbreaks and mental breakdowns. It’s strange, of course, to come back and see people lead the life she’d lived for almost exactly ten years. There’s solace in the fact that Fred and Andy and Keenan and Kristen are all still there, but the halls of 30 Rock are still filled with faces she doesn’t recognize. Writers and PAs and cast members she’s never met. And then there’s the fact that hosting on its own is entirely different from being a cast member. Especially for someone like Amy, who craves control like she craves rocky road ice cream, and suddenly has to defer to people twenty years younger. People who are writing jokes  _ for _ her and not the other way around.

So it’s no surprise, really, that Seth is a godsend.

There’s a specific feeling that comes with reconnecting with the other half of your comedy brain. It’s not one Amy can really explain; if she had to describe it, she’d compare it to finding the other half to a locket. Something you can wear all on its own and it looks  _ fine, _ but becomes so much prettier when it meets its missing piece. He brings out a side of her she’s kept down since giving birth (twice) and working on  _ Parks. _ The moment they start working together again she’s more loose, more vulgar, more free. It’s not like they don’t talk anymore  — nothing’s more rare than a day when they  _ don’t _ talk — but being back in this building is different. They’re suddenly thirty again, writing like they won’t remember tomorrow and savoring every bit of the ever-fleeting process. Self-imposed curfews of ten pm wordlessly roll past midnight. Writing meetings are filled with irrelevant anecdotes and inside jokes from years past. The week seems to last both two hours and two years, ending with a show that leaves Amy both proud and devastated. 

And really,  _ really _ drunk.

The party after the afterparty is at some actor’s house she doesn’t remember the name of, whom she can only assume is banging a writer. Tina’s by Amy’s side, feeding her more glasses of wine than she’s had since Abel was born and riffing on a bit that didn’t make it on-air. It feels so  _ right, _ to be here sans husband and kids. (It feels increasingly less guilty to admit that.) And by the time Seth saddles up next to her at the bar and Kenan leaves to talk to someone else, she’s practically giddy with a happy kind of nostalgia.

Her head is already resting on his shoulder and his arm is wrapped around her waist when she says, “We had some really fucking great times here, didn’t we?”

If he’s offended that she’s talking like he’s already left, he doesn’t show it. The feeling of his laughter vibrates through her arm, her skin, her bones. “Eh, they were alright. Coulda done without all the orgies we had, they were a real creativity boner killer.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh (read: cackle). “Oh, come on. You jumped at any and every chance to get into my pants.”

There’s this moment that follows. If she hadn’t known him, if she hadn’t been by his side every weekend for nine years, Amy might not have noticed. But she had, and she does, and this is what happens: Seth freezes. Seth  _ stills. _ It’s only for a fleeting second, but it sends off alarms in her alcohol-filled brain. And it feels like a specific kind of action. She doesn’t feel embarrassed for what she said; she feels elated. It doesn’t feel like a rejection; it feels like an admission.

Instead of harping on it, though, because they’re forty now and both in committed relationships, she redirects. “Or maybe it was mostly you trying to get with Hader and Samberg. I was always jealous of those sluts because everyone wanted to sleep with them.”

Moments always pass. Seth laughs. “You got me there. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be the ham in that sandwich again.” His hand gives her side a squeeze as she lifts her head to meet his gaze. Prince is playing in the background and she hears Vanessa Bayer laugh. “It just isn’t the same around here without you, Moses.”

Unexpectedly, inexplicably, tears threaten the corner of her eyes. He’s smiling at her like she both lifts the sun and pulls it down, and her heart constricts. “While I do love having my ass kissed, you’ve always been the reason this show is good, even when I was here. You’re the heart of this place, Coco.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s trying to hide his blush, but Amy can see it clear as day. The head fucking writer of one of the most beloved shows on television, and Seth Meyers is still keeping it modest. It’s incredible to her, really. “Thank God you left then. It was getting cold under your tiny ass shadow.”

Another cackle escapes her because she can’t seem to help it. “Glad you finally said what you’ve always wanted to, Meyers. We’ve had a pool on when your balls would drop since ‘03.”

“Who won?”

“Fucking Shoemaker.” Amy feigns disappointment for a few relished seconds before allowing herself to stare at him again. “I can’t believe I used to complain about this place. What a dope I was.”

“Well, in your defense, it was  _ really _ shitty to work here sometimes. Especially on the days we didn’t get to hang out.”

It’s true, so Amy doesn’t laugh. She merely hums and adds, “But those bad days don’t compare to the days we  _ did _ get to interact. ‘Cause those were pretty baller.”

“I guess it’s true what they say,” Seth says before taking a brilliantly timed pause, in only a way he can. “You never know you’re living in the good days until they’re gone.”

Amy thinks about that and wonders if it’s true. She had certainly known then that Seth was the best she’d ever get, but had she truly appreciated it? Had she taken those  _ Update _ segments for granted, believing there would always be another one? Had she just figured she’d move on from writing with Seth and write on her own show? Had she wasted too many precious moments with Seth wondering if Will was getting the wrong idea about them? Her brain buzzes with the sign of a revelation and Amy forces it to think about something else.

“To quote the prolific Don Draper,” (there’s a pause where she joins in his laughter) “ In Greek, ‘nostalgia’ literally means ‘the pain from an old wound.’ It’s a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone.”

Seth is quiet for a frighteningly long time. So long, in fact, that Amy takes the time to consider making another joke just to settle the tension. And when he finally speaks again, she almost wishes he hadn’t. “I could never feel pain when it comes to you, Amy Poehler. It’s only ever love.”

(Though his expression says differently, Amy chooses to believe him.)

—————— 

**An article written on people.com titled, “A Timeline of Our Favorite** **_SNL_ ** **Couple (With Their Spouses),” posted November 29th, 2013**

Two weeks ago from the NYC Headquarters of  _ People, _ it’s Saturday night!

Or whatever day you’re reading this on.

Though the days of what some argue to be the best seasons of the late night sketch show are long over,  _ SNL  _ BFF’S Amy Poehler (42) and Seth Meyers (40) awakened our shipper hearts when they were spotted strolling down 5th Ave yesterday. The pair were seen sipping coffees, shopping, and of course, giggling. Poehler left the show in 2008 after the birth of her first son, Archie, whereas Meyers still serves as the show’s head writer and the anchor of  _ Weekend Update. _ It’s amazing to see these two adorable and immensely talented people are still friends, but it does beg the question… Did they ever date?

I was incredibly saddened to learn the answer is no. Despite the obvious chemistry that graced our screens for fifteen minutes every week, Poehler and Meyers remained completely platonic friends. (There even seemed to be a nod to the Sethly fans during Bill Hader’s final show, in which Seth assured Hader’s character Stefon, of whom he would marry, that Poehler was just his “platonic work friend.” Poehler, sarcastically, responded, “Hey, thanks!”) From their recurring sketch about The Needlers, in which they played a couple that clearly should have gotten a divorce, to their increasingly bad handshakes during their sign-offs on  _ Update _ , America was secretly rooting for them.

I found myself crawling down a rabbit hole to figure out who they did date, and I’m going to provide you with the timeline now. So we can figure out where these never-lovers might have gone wrong. You’re welcome, America!

**April, 1996** — Amy Poehler meets future husband Will Arnett (43) at an improv show at  _ Upright Citizen’s Brigade. _ Arnett supposedly develops a crush on her, despite having attended the show with a girlfriend.

**June, 2000** — Poehler and Arnett begin dating, having been reintroduced by friends.

**September, 2001** — Poehler and Meyers perform for the first time on  _ Saturday Night Live. _

**August, 2003** — Poehler and Arnett officially tie the knot, after three years of dating.

**October, 2005** — Meyers reportedly starts dating Rashida Jones, friend and co-star to Poehler, after having been spotted together at a movie premiere. (Ouch!)

**September, 2006** — Poehler and Meyers share the  _ Weekend Update _ desk for the first time.

**March, 2008** — Meyers begins dating district attorney Alexi Ashe (30).

**September, 2012** — Arnett announces his separation from Poehler after nine years of marriage.

**April, 2013 —** Poehler begins dating fellow actor Nick Kroll (35). (Hello, rebound!)

**July - September, 2013** — Meyers and Ashe announce their engagement and later marry in Massachusetts. Poehler is in attendance.

So, for those keeping score, there was a period of nine months when Poehler was going through a separation and Meyers wasn’t engaged yet where they could have totally made it work. Of course, there’s the more real fact that they were never single at the same time and found their respective life partners. Though my shipper heart may be broken, I’m forever glad they have remained close friends through all these years. I will leave you with nothing but good wishes for Seth and Alexi and Amy and Nick and the hashtag #friendshipgoals. 

—————— 

**In the home of Seth Meyers in Greenwich Village, April 3rd, 2020**

It’s not until hours after the show and an hour after he’s put Ashe and Axel to bed and kissed Alexi on the cheek, that Seth allows himself to think about seeing Amy again. About hearing the word  _ kink _ leave her mouth, over and over.

He’s older now, with grey pushing at his temples and wrinkles near his eyes. Long gone are the days when he actively loved her, sometimes so fiercely that it hurt. It’s a passive sort of love now. One that’s locked away in a box in the corner of his mind, only opened when he pulls out the key. Like now, as he wrestles with his sheets and sees golden hair through a grainy screen when he closes his eyes.

Time is a funny thing. It’s been almost twenty years since his journey started and he feels different in so many ways. No longer is he the scared, anxious writer who spent too much time worrying about the next paycheck and doing far too many drugs. No longer is he a bachelor—though, really, he doesn’t think anyone ever accused him of being one—with few responsibilities and even less money. But some things, Seth knows, never change. Like the fact that he can still be so affected by the sound of Amy’s voice. By the way her mind works, the way she overcomes so many terrible things, the way she’s continued to let Seth in after all these years.

There is solace in the fact that it doesn’t hurt now. Before, back when they were only kids, loving Amy was a perfect model of Icarus. His wings singed by the fire at the edges, unable to resist the beautiful feeling of the burning. It still burns, but he’s much farther from her sun now. And he’s found someone he loves more than he thought his body was capable of. Someone who gave him two beautiful children, gave him the best family he’s ever known. There’s nothing in the world that would keep Seth from that.

And he’s pretty sure Amy feels the same way. Is pretty sure she always has. Last week when they were prepping for the show, she had mentioned, uncharacteristically casual, that her and Will were quarantining together. It was surprising to hear, especially knowing the terrible way Will used to act, but Seth gets it. Family is a powerful, powerful thing. And all Seth wants—all Seth has ever wanted—is for her to be happy. Perhaps that’s the best progression anyone can hope for; a true wish for true happiness for someone you’ve loved hopelessly for over twenty years. Maybe it’s a little naive, but he’s proud of the place they’re in now. Of the way things have changed to a love that’s not  _ not _ romantic but far more platonic. 

But the thing about Seth Meyers is that he’s never been perfect. He still thinks about that night in the dark fourteen years ago when they both crossed that terrible, unspeakable line. He’s only human. It rings in his head like a stand-up bit but he loves but can’t quite figure out how to make work. Dormant during the day-to-day but impossible to ignore when his brain latches onto it. Thoughts of her impossibly soft skin, of her curls tickling his chest, of the sound of her breathy sighs echoing in an empty apartment. It plagues his mind like an incurable disease and his heart thrums with an unfamiliar anxiety.

He opens his eyes. Looks at Alexi sleeping soundly, unknowingly, next to him. Feels for Frisbee with his toe at the end of the bed. Allows himself ten more seconds of forbidden thoughts. And when he closes his eyes again, he sleeps.

—————— 

**In an alternate timeline**

They first meet in 1994.

Amy is twenty-three and Seth is only twenty-one, both fresh-faced and ready to take on the comedy world. She’s performing with Tina in a two-woman show called “Women of Color” and Seth is hypnotized after the first sentence. And before he knows it he’s being thrust on stage, forced to talk about his day, and Amy shines like the sun and makes him laugh. It’s the most electric his twenty-one year old body has ever felt and he walks off the stage thinking,  _ holy shit, I think I love this girl. _

He tells her as much when the show is over and she’s lingering on the stage. Her response is a cackle and a nudge to his shoulder and Seth blushes in response. He’s not sure what he’s expecting will happen, but someone asks how her boyfriend’s doing and he chalks his disappointment up to a pipe dream. And though he talks to anyone who will tolerate him for long enough about the brilliance of the show (read: of Amy) for a few weeks, he doesn’t think much more of her after that.

That is, until she shows up at 30 Rock five years later, sans boyfriend.

Maybe it’s because they’re both new. Maybe it’s because they’re roughly the same age. Maybe it’s because they think alike and have met before, even if she doesn’t really remember it. Whatever the reason is, they come together like moths drawn to the same flame. They’re friends first, which is better for both of them.  _ Saturday Night Live  _ has a way of pulling you in and chewing you out and leaving little left. It drives you to make shitty choices and fuck your life up for a little while. Having a tethered friend that is there for you simply because they understand what you’re going through is amazing. Having Amy there is even better.

For a while she’s only a lifeline, a friend to dump his emotional problems on. A person to talk to about his failed relationships and unsuccessful jokes. Someone to bounce ideas off of over a slice of pizza at three am. But somewhere along the line, without them even realizing it, she becomes more. The  _ most. _ He learns that he can’t go a few hours without talking to her and that when something—anything—happens, she’s the first person he wants to tell. He dates less and stops drinking every night. Colors change from dulled greys to vibrant yellows. More and more sketches revolve around them, as a couple, and it doesn’t feel as foreign to him as it used to. And by the time they wind up at the  _ Update _ desk together, Seth knows.

Amy, for her part, fights it longer than he does. She’s got a decently long list of lovers under her belt because women are allowed to do that, thank you very much, but they never hold weight in her heart. Keeping men at an emotional distance is easier, less damaging. She is a comedian, a writer, and everyone knows the best stories come from failed relationships. So she convinces herself for much too long that losing Seth as a friend is far more scary than losing him as a lover. Where would she go if not to him? Who would she talk to or write with? The thought feels unbearable for years. Until, one day, she looks over at him as they sit on his couch, riffing on some bit, and just thinks to herself,  _ oh. It’s you. _

It’s a little weird at first. They’d both be lying if they said it wasn’t. There are fights they didn’t used to have, fueled by jealousy and miscommunications. They even call it quits one night, on a cold street in Manhattan, after a particularly rowdy afterparty. (See, they decide to do this stupid thing where they don’t tell anyone they’re dating. It seems smart at the time, because Amy doesn’t want to jeopardize her reputation and Seth doesn’t want to be heckled by Fred and Bill and Maya. But it ends up being a stupid idea when Seth gets hit on and Amy gets angry. Five Drink Amy is something else.) It lasts less than a day, this “breakup,” and they find a way to talk to each other. They tell everyone what’s going on and while some are surprised, most are wondering why it wasn’t already considered common knowledge. And it all gets overwhelmingly easy.

You know the story from here: they move in together, they get engaged, they marry, they have kids. There are ups and downs, as any couple has, but they work through it. They have successes together and heartbreaks together and they grow old together. And most importantly, they change together. In an alternate timeline it’s only them: Seth and Amy, Amy and Seth, SethAmy. Soulmates until the end.

—————— 

**A bar in the West Village, “Dublin 6,” sometime in late May 2006**

“Do you want to come up?”

Lord help him, he really does. There are so many reasons he shouldn’t. Chief among them is the fact that she’s  _ married _ and something tells Seth this isn’t an innocent invitation. He’s gotten frighteningly good at reading Amy and her intentions over the years. But there is one reason why he should and it seems to trump everything else in his mind: he really fucking wants to.

He allows himself three breaths to come up with an overwhelming reason to walk away and allows three more breaths to let the shame flood in when it doesn’t. And then, six breaths later, he says okay.

Her beaming smile is totally worth it.

The stairs leading up to her apartment creak under their weight and Amy’s giggles. She’s got that buzzed glow that suits her so well and Seth tries to tell himself he’s only going to bask in it for ten minutes before leaving. Twenty, max. Twenty minutes to make sure she gets to bed okay and then he’s leaving, because he has to. Even now, even as he’s taking his shoes and jacket off in her hallway, he’s lying to himself. Maybe it’s a thing to be proud of, the fact he can convince himself of things he doesn’t truly believe. At least it’s gotten him decently far in the comedy world.

“Drink?” When he looks over at her she’s already in her small kitchen, feet and shoulders bare. And so achingly beautiful. 

His mind screams at him to say no. Instead he says yes. “Sure. Beer, if you have it.”

“We have some Heineken. I know it’s not Miller’s.”

He should ask her why she has beer in the house when Will has been sober for years now. He doesn’t. “Well, I suppose I will just have to suffer.”

It seems to be the right answer, because she smiles brightly again and brings two bottles over to the couch. Seth can only follow, because that’s what he does. He follows Amy wherever she goes. They end up sitting a little too close on the couch and their knees bump against each other when they shift to reach for their beers. There’s a charge in the air, one Seth hasn’t experienced with her before. It sends a pleasant sort of nerves down his spine, one that reminds him of the time he was fourteen and had his first serious kiss. It had been with a girl named Michelle who had braces and didn’t mean nearly as much to him as Amy does. After too many seconds he realizes she’s talking, chattering mindlessly about something Jimmy had done earlier that night, when he was drunk out of his mind. He forces the corners of his brain to go blurry until all he can see is her in front of him, knee under her chin and pink in her cheeks.

“Amy,” he breathes out, uncaring that he’s interrupting her unguided story. The clock behind them ticks quietly past three in the morning. She eyes blink once, then twice. Wordlessly she inches closer, until all he has to do is reach out and taste her. He tries to find the answer in her eyes, the explanation of why she’s letting this happen, but finds nothing concrete. So he presses a shaky hand to her shoulder and asks, “You sure?”

Time passes slowly. Amy considers; Seth holds his breath. And somehow, unsure of who starts first, they meet in the middle.

It’s somehow devastatingly heartbreaking and blindly perfect at the same time. It feels, curiously, like the first time he ever saw Steve Carroll and Stephen Colbert perform in college; like he was getting a first glimpse into a new world he belonged in. There’s an alarming lack of recognition of the fact that they  _ should not be kissing right now,  _ replaced by a sharp recognition of how much he’s wanted this. How much he hopes they both have wanted this. They don’t break for a few more hours. When they do, stretched over her queen sized bed, the New York City sun blinding their vision, the sheets and limbs tangled between them, Seth leaves without a word. And they silently, mutually, agree to never speak of it again.

They always were good at reading each other’s minds that way.

On the ride home, he privately worries that they’ve ruined everything. The anxiety overwhelms the rightness he had felt in the moments she was underneath (and on top of) him. Involuntary visions of them cautiously ignoring each other press against his brain. All he can see is Amy pulling out of  _ Update _ and finding someone else to write with. All he can hear is the inquiries of others, wondering why they’re never in the same place at the same time these days. It causes him to miss his stop and walk ten extra blocks, his hands in his pockets and his cheeks between his teeth the entire walk home. He calls in sick the next morning—something he never, ever does—and prepares for the end.

It’s that way for a few days until it suddenly isn’t. She texts him a picture of someone in a Steely McBeam costume and he responds and it’s fine. They write together one night some weeks later and it’s fine. He eventually moves on with someone new (for a little while) and it’s fine. Their relationship changes into something a little less bright, a little mysterious, and it’s fine. Because in the end they’re still Amy and Seth and they will always be fine.

Seth and Amy, Amy and Seth, SethAmy. Soulmates that could never really figure it out in the end.


End file.
